Perilous Journeys. Shadow Over Rhudaur III

[Eryndil]

November 8, 1347, early evening – Eryndil’s House in Cameth Brin

They filed into the drawing room for their after-dinner conversation; Hendegil and Caelen first, then Eryndil, followed by his parents; Camglas and Rildorien. Glambeth followed tentatively, for her grandmother wished for her to get as much refinement as possible while away from her mother – but Paurblung was excused, for he was only 10. Gildurien and Vilyandur came last of all, reluctant by inclination to join the rest, but bored by the alternative – and still hoping to slip out for the night again a bit later.

The room was decent-sized for its placement in a narrow city-home like this one, but it was a bit cozy for eight. The seating had been modified since the arrival of Eryndil’s family though, so it was comfortable enough. Once they had all taken their places, Camglas turned the conversation to one of his favorite topics – life at Ostinand.

“Well Eryndil,” he began, “your secret has been found out!”

Eryndil waited curiously for his father to continue, while everyone else looked at Camglas expectantly. Even Vilyandur and Gildurien perked up and paid attention.

Camglas, having gotten the attention he wanted, continued with a slight wink, “Yes Eryndil, I’ve heard all about the long visit you had with your girl, Emelbeth.”

At the implication, Eryndil blushed slightly despite himself, but it was Caelen who spoke up, “His girl!” and then to Eryndil, “Who is this Emelbeth?”

But Hendegil came to her brother’s rescue. “Emelbeth,” she began, “ is an elderly widow who lives all alone on what’s left of her family’s holdings. Her house had fallen into disrepair of late, but none had been able to help her get set up for winter. Father had a mind to, but kept getting turned aside from it. But… while he was staying in our home, Eryndil took a few of his men over and did the job up right.” Then Hendegil turned toward her brother and smiled. “He tried to do it on the sly too, only father found him out anyway.”

Caelen seemed reassured, and Camglas added. “We didn’t used to have much of that – a household being left with no claimants. But now I have three or four standing empty, besides Emelbeth’s, which will likely be empty at her passing. Used to be that SOME distant nephew or cousin would take it up. These days, there’s even less of THOSE around.”

“So,” Rildorien asked Eryndil, “did you see anyone else while you were home? In town perhaps?”

Caelen wondered right away if Rildorien was hinting at something or other, but Eryndil met her question right away, “No… not really. Well… I did see one of those odd ‘nephews’ father just mentioned. Father,” and he turned back to Camglas, “I ran into young Inost one afternoon and sat with him for awhile. Really all the time he could spare. He seems to have really got his hands on things now.”

“Yes, indeed!” answered Camglas, beaming.

“Who is Inost?” asked Caelen, not feeling quite so threatened this time around.

“Inost is a young man who grew up right down in Tanoth Brin – second son of a tradesman here, but his great-uncle had a modest household, just 80 acres, but on some choice land. Inost’s grandfather left some years back to make his own way, but the great uncle died without any sons. What was that… Eryndil, wasn’t it just over five years back? When you were home for the summer?” Eryndil nodded.

“Anyway, his brothers wanted to stay in their father’s trade here in town, but Inost thought it would be a good opportunity for him to take the place, so he did. Problem was, he didn’t know the first thing about farming, or running a household – or even how decent folk behave in our part of the kingdom.”

“The auspicious beginning to his arrival,” said Hendegil, who paused and then went on, “was the turning out of his great-aunt, the wife of his great-uncle. But father and Eryndil straightened him out on that one – Eryndil especially, I believe.”

“Well, no matter,” Replied Eryndil. “By the time I left, he was all set up for the winter, but I always wondered whether he’d last through the next.”

“He did son,” said Camglas. “Oh, there was still much to teach him; proper care of his livestock, when to sow and when to harvest, rotating his crops, making what he had last through the long months to come – doing upkeep on his buildings. But the boy has really taken to it, and shows a lot of promise. He has a fine household going there, and is a great asset to my thansh’r.”

“Besides,” Gildurien added, winking toward Hendegil, “he’s about the most appealing eligible young man on your thansh’r, father.”

Rildorien looked a bit scandalized, but Camglas only chuckled and continued. “Sorry girls, not for much longer, if what I hear from the birds and the goats is so. Inost’s old great-aunt – the one he once tried to turn out – has thrown a cousin’s grand-daughter his way," and here he looked significantly Eryndil's way, "Sweet Glimwen, the miller’s daughter! I don’t know if they’ll make it official at Mid-year – or else move it up to Sowing, or even Yule…”

A bit of a scowl crossed Rildorien’s face and she glanced quickly at Eryndil, looking for a reaction.

“Anyway,” Rildorien spoke up, “we need not bore our guest with talk of things back home. Surely she knows so little of such things.”

“Oh, not at all!” exclaimed Caelen. “This is just the sort of talk I grew up with – at my… father’s household.” She looked deep in thought for a moment, and then smiled. “Really, this makes me feel right at home.”

“What sort of household did your father run, Caelen?” asked Camglas.

“We had 200 acres. My great-grandfather had grown the family holdings to 800, but had four sons, and the Thane bade them divide it evenly. My grandfather was the eldest, but he was glad to share with his brothers, keeping them close, instead of having them re-settle in other parts far and wide. But my father had only sisters, so Callon stood to get the whole 200 one day.”

“Well, 200 acres is good, but 800 acres is a lot, and in most parts even Elderman Householders are capped at 400. But what of your great-uncles and their shares? Why were you and Callon not able to find refuge among them?” asked Camglas.

“Over the years, one thing and another happened. Some of those had to be divided further, but one disaster or another overtook all my father’s family. By the time I was a little girl, we alone still held our land of all the relatives, and my grandfather passed early, leaving his land in my father’s hands. Strangers held the rest of it, mostly hillmen, but some Dunedain as well – or some mixed, I don’t know. But then of course, disaster overtook my father as well.”

“Were there tenants?” asked Camglas.

“Six families at first. Later eight – then ten or twelve, I’m not really sure, as my father’s cousin’s lost their holdings – for a few of their tenant families came, asking to live among us.”

“What of your father’s sisters, Caelen?” asked Hendegil, instinctively reaching out with a hand on her shoulder. “How many were there?”

“There were three. The eldest moved to Tanoth Brin, before even we were born. The youngest married a householder somewhere away south – but has kept to herself, and we wouldn’t know where to find her. The middle sister… she still lived with us, and was with my parents when, when…”

Rildorien saw the looks of sympathy universally bestowed upon Caelen, and could hardly help from feeling likewise herself. But, noting where the most sympathetic looks originated, she thought it might be wise to break this train of thinking.

“Where are those servants with our desserts? And, can we have them bring my harp? And Hendegil’s flute? Caelen, do you sing?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Answered Caelen, glad at the thought of what was coming.

Rildorien looked just a bit crestfallen, but just then the servants arrived with a tray of pastries and mugs of a hot, steaming liquid.

“Apple pie and hot apple cider!” exclaimed Hendegil. “My, they sure do serve a lot of apples here in this house!”

Eryndil and Caelen glanced discreetly at one another, and smiled.

[scribe]

November 8, 1347, sunset – eight leagues west of the Last Bridge

“We camp here for the night!” called Barund, in as authoritative a voice as he could muster. He glanced discretely toward Princess Gimilbeth, trying to gauge whether or not she approved – but he could not tell. He had consulted her on his earlier commands to the caravan, – which had met with a bemused stare. Perhaps he tried too hard to please her, or defer to her, he thought – maybe she would respect him for simply giving the orders as he saw fit. He had never escorted a member of the royal family before and, while he had practically begged Merendil for the duty, he now felt a little uncertain of what was required. He was given to understand that Gwindor and Elvegil had been particular favorites of the Princess. But who knows? Maybe some day he could enjoy that favor himself? Maybe even after this winter at Amon Sul!

He watched as the column advanced forward to the designated spot. There were forty men of Rhudaur – his own twenty from Brochenridge plus ten men from Merendil’s company, the six unscathed men of Gimilbeth’s former escort, and four men from Iant Barad. This last had been difficult to pull off, for the place was only garrisoned with twelve men, all of whom had families there in the village at Iant Methed. But after the attack, both Merendil and Barund wanted a few men along who knew the area well – so Merendil had commanded it. Barund had been west of the Bridge before, but only a couple times, and several years before – never quite as far as Amon Sul.

The rest of the party, besides Barund and the Princess herself, consisted of her maid and remaining page, the painter, the wagon-driver and two Elves who had attached themselves to the latter. They only had one wagon. All that could be spared from Iant Barad were employed in carting the unburied slain back to Brochenridge or beyond. The surviving Dwarves were trailing behind, and should catch up with them to pitch their own camp before the dark overtook them. Shaken up somewhat by the Orc attack, they had settled on continuing to follow Gimilbeth’s escort all the way to Amon Sul, then taking the interior road straight south to Tharbad, rather than taking the trail along the Mitheithel.

The site of their camp was an old abandoned watchtower from the days of Arnor. It had been ruined in the centuries of fighting between Rhudaur and Cardolan, and had no roof or floors, and half the stonework had fallen. For all the day’s journey, since leaving Iant Barad early that morning, they had traveled the border between the two lands, for Rhudaur claimed the land on their right, north of the road, and Cardolan that on their left, to the south. But the fighting had worn down both lands, and neither now had much fight left in them. And the land itself was desolate and empty – for after those years of war, none now lived within many miles of this stretch of road on either side.

With the short days, Barund was glad they had reached the watchtower before dark. In Arnor’s early years, these places had been established every eight leagues along Arnor’s major roads, as way-stations for her soldiers and to provide succor to travelers. If they kept making eight leagues each day, they would be within a day’s journey to Amon Sul when they camped on the 11th. Four steady days march, then one a little shorter at the end, if the maps were right, and they would arrive on November 12th. And they needed a marcher’s pace, for many horses had been lost in the fighting, and many of the rest were needed for the wagons. Only 15 of his men were mounted.

“A way-station, Your Highness,” offered Barund to Gimilbeth as he drew his horse up beside her. “Would you like your own tent set up inside its walls?”

“Of course it’s a way-station!” Gimilbeth began sharply, but continued rather formally, “thank you Sir Barund, I would be pleased to make use of it.”

Barund was off, barking orders at the wagon driver, until he remembered that this was the one wounded man in the company. After all, they were suddenly short on wagon drivers, and this man knew his horses. So, Barund called out to four men nearby, one of whom was unfortunate enough to look up at him at just the wrong time, and ordered them to make ready the Princess’ lodgings for the evening. He then returned to her side, in order that she might not want for companionship.

“It will not be as comfortable as our stay at Iant Barad, my Lady, but it must suffice as we travel in these parts.”

Barund was disappointed to see that she made no response and gave no reaction, but only stared straight ahead while her canvases were brought into their proper order. Barund had hoped that his mention of the place would remind her of the last few days – his rescue of her late in the night of November 5th, their short trip on to Iant Methed – the Last Bridge, and the warm reception they all shared at Iant Barad. Then yesterday, their lone full day of rest, he had been toasted at an impromptu celebration as the hero of her re-capture – and today, they had become traveling companions.

Thoughts of her, and attentions to her when he could make them, occupied him all the rest of the evening, until he settled into bed under his own tent, right near to hers, in case she needed anything, and that he might most suitably protect her. His mind kept going back to his first sight of her, in the moonlight among the trees, heedless of her ruined attire. She was older than he – but clearly not TOO old, and her form had retained a youthful shape. He wondered incessantly… if a royal woman like herself, probably too old to marry now, might draw a younger man like himself into her service. He smiled at the thought. He would be happy to do whatever duties she might demand of him.

He dreamed that night of what the coming Yule might hold.

written by Valandil

[Daurendil]

Late evening of November 8, 1347, near Eryndil's house in Cameth Brin

“A little higher, Raglas, and more to the left!”

The young courtier swung the hook again and let it fly towards the small balcony. The hook hit the wall and landed with a muffled thud on the street pavement below. The old siege hook was swathed in several layers of cloth, so it made little sound - at least no one inside the house seemed to notice. There was a large company assembled in one of the rooms of the second floor and the sound of many voices and an occasional song floated out into the quiet street.

It proved a difficult task to find exactly what room had been assigned to Caelen – but a little bribery works marvels even on the most trustworthy maids. To Daurendil’s delight they had found out that the room had a balcony overlooking the city battlements. Now the prince and two of his best friends were making an attempt to climb the wall to the balcony.

Raglas made another try, this time with even less success, as the hook flew wide and narrowly missed one of the dark windows of the first floor. Daurendil hissed in frustration. “Can’t you aim better?” he asked. “Once you hit a window we are undone…"

“Try yourself then, my Prince”, his old friend replied with not a little ire in his voice.

“I can’t reach the second floor” Daurendil shook his head angrily. “Please, try again!”

“Let me have a go at it!” offered Celemir, who stood slightly behind in the shadows of the city wall. Raglas passed him the hook. Celemir took his time swinging the hook in circles over his head, and then with a sharp movement of his hand he let it fly towards the house. This time the hook flew straight and dropped onto the balcony floor. The three friends let out their breaths.

“Now pull the rope, very gently, lest the hook misses the railing” the prince whispered. Inch by inch the hook scraped over the balcony floor and soon become solidly stuck in the intricate metalwork of the railing. The friends gave the rope a few pulls to be sure that it was safe to climb.

“Now go, Daurendil”. Raglas gave the prince’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Good luck for your talk with the Lady. And may your tongue be more useful that your hands”.

Daurendil was a good climber. In a matter of moments his strong lithe figure reached the balcony of the second floor. He pulled the rope up after him and concealed himself in the shadows by the side wall of Caelen’s balcony.

***

After a very pleasant evening with much poetry and even a few songs that they had sang together with Hendigil, Caelen finally retired to her room. Stretching lazily, she went to the window and looked out. The night was very quiet – and the bright full moon looked right into her window. Wishing to take a breath of fresh air before going to bed, Caelen draped a woolen shawl over her shoulders and opened the balcony door. She stepped outside marveling how warm the night seemed – so unusual for November. The small balcony had a breathtaking view over the highest wall of the battlements and onto the winding King’s road that descended from the plateau towards Tanoth Brin. But Caelen paid little heed to the landscape, as, fascinated, she watched the Moon. She thought of her brother traveling somewhere far away. Perhaps at this very moment he was also looking at the silver fruit of Telperion, remembering her?

Her musings were interrupted by a slight cough. Caelen almost cried out in fright. Startled she looked to her right. There was a man standing on the balcony, smiling at her. He turned his head slightly and the full moon lit his face – Ohh! it was the Prince Daurendil himself!

“Good evening, Caelen” he whispered. “Do not be afraid, I only come here to apologize. I know you were booted out of the Palace because of me… I almost strangled this old toad, the housekeeper! And Mother… oh, I better won’t speak of it…”

He approached and took Caelen’s hands in his. “Now, tell me that you bear me no grudge, so we can continue to be good friends!”

[Caelen]

Late Evening of Nov 8, in Eryndil's house in Cameth Brin

Caelen's heart was still beating like a hammer in her chest - to find a man on one's balcony in such an unexpected manner was unnerving, to say the least!

She had kind of known, although she tried to ignore it, that the Prince giving her a riding habit was not something that was "done". But this - him appearing on her balcony at night - was DEFINITELY not "done"! She already had a bad reputation from the riding habit incident; THIS incident would ... she couldn't even THINK of what it would do to her reputation! She had to get rid of him - and fast!

"Of course I bear you no grudge, Your Highness," she said in an urgent whisper. "I know that you meant no ill, and I will be glad to remain your friend. But my reputation suffered because of ill-natured gossips - and this (although I'm sure you meant no harm) will only be WORSE! Please - you must leave - and NOW!"

She managed to pull her hands free, despite his protests, and with a final whispered "GO!", fled into her room, shutting the doors (which unfortunately had no lock).

Daurendil sighed. All this work, and not even a kiss! Ah, well - at least she wanted to remain friends. He would visit her properly tomorrow - he'd come in state to visit her and show up this Eryndil, too. He blew her a kiss through the window, where Caelen was peering out at him with wide eyes, and got ready to descend ...

... and found that he had a problem - the eternal problem of people that climb up or down with ropes - how would he get the dratted rope off of her balcony after he got down?

"Caelen! Caelen!" he mouthed at her, motioning frantically for her to come back out on the balcony. But his Caelen wouldn't budge - she stood there shaking her head and frantically motioning for him to leave.

So he did the only logical thing - he opened the balcony door and walked into her bedroom to ask her to please throw down the rope after he climbed down.

Caelen fled out the other door like a deer before the hounds.

Eryndil was walking down the hall, "just checking things out before I close down the house for the night," he told himself - but actually to have an excuse to walk by Caelen's room. He remembered his encounter with Caelen in his bedroom yesterday, and his mind started to wander a bit, wondering what he would find if he walked into her bedroom like she had walked into his ...

... and he was nearly bowled over by a frantic Caelen who came flying out of her room like an arrow shot from a Lorien bow.

Her eyes were huge, and she was gasping so that she could hardly talk.

"What's wrong, Caelen?" he demanded, holding her by the shoulders. She made a few incoherent noises and then looked towards her room, and then back at him with her eyes even bigger than before, breathing hard and looking like a frightened rabbit.

"Robbers? HERE?!" thought Eryndil in amazement. He put Caelen behind him and strode into her room, ready to face anything - anything but what he DID face - the Prince Daurendil, holding a ... what in the WORLD was THAT?!

[Eryndil]

November 8, 1347, late evening – Second Floor of Eryndil’s home, Cameth Brin

“Your… highness?” said Eryndil, with only a slight nod of his head, rather than a bow. He stood at full height then, shoulders apart, waiting, intending that every aspect of his demeanor said, ‘you are a son of my King, but what are you doing HERE?’

“Ah… er…” began Daurendil, then finally recovering himself somewhat, bowed and continued, “At your service, Sir Eryndil.”

After a short pause, another nod from Eryndil followed, “At yours, your Highness.”

“So… so this is YOUR house? This is where you live?”

“Yes.”

“Odd that. You know… for some time, and not so long ago, it was hardly occupied, and I took to practicing… that is to say…”

“Yes?” Even as the exchange continued, Eryndil felt himself relax on the inside, but tried not to show any change to his expression or posture. This boob of a Prince had put himself in a rather tight corner – and Eryndil had no desire to make getting out of it any easier for him. And… if he tried anything, he was clearly alone, and Eryndil didn’t doubt he would have the better of him – perish the thought that he would have to grapple with a future King over the sanctity of his own home though.

“Well… having had a few too many drinks, I suppose, I took a fancy to the idea of trying to make a little climb… with this!” He held forth his grappling hook. “Upon reaching the balcony, it was clear that the place was occupied, and I realized someone was coming. So… I tried to hide in the draperies, hoping that the person might only come in and out, and that I could then easily slip away.”

“Now…” and here the Prince showed a look of great surprise – and Eryndil noticed his increased use of hand motions, “you can just imagine my surprise when I saw that the person who had come into the room was none other than… Caelen!” He paused for effect.

Eryndil nodded once more, his face still hard, “Small world,” he offered. From the corner of his eye he could see that Hendegil had been drawn out of her room by the commotion and was standing behind him, by Caelen. Hearing other footsteps in the stairway, he signaled his sister to shut the door. “Go on,” he said in a low voice.

Prince Daurendil lowered his voice, but increased the wildness of his gestures. “Then… still feeling quite badly that I might have previously offended this honorably young lady,” he bowed in Caelen’s general direction, “I revealed myself and attempted to apologize to her for my earlier indiscretion… and well, I suppose this was a greater!” and he looked quite crest-fallen.

“Is this when you chased her from the room?” asked Eryndil.

“Oh no, no! Not at all!” and the Prince looked genuinely distressed. “You see, she had most graciously accepted my apology, and I had turned to leave… when I realized I needed someone to throw down my rope, after I had climbed back to the street!”

So THAT was it! Eryndil couldn’t suppress a smile, and Hendegil made a sound indicative of a stifled laugh. Caelen still looked rather in shock, but Hendegil had the advantage of coming in after Eryndil was there, instead of first meeting Daurendil alone, in the dark, on her balcony.

“And… who is THIS young lady?” continued Daurnedil, smiling and bowing toward Eryndil’s sister.

At that Hendegil pulled her robe closer about herself – she had almost been in bed when she had heard the voices from Caelen’s room.

Eryndil stepped forward. “This would be a rather inopportune time for introductions, your Highness. Here, I will throw down your rope.”

Daurnedil’s climb back down to the street was a bit more difficult than the climb up, for there was a small, enclosed courtyard in front of the house, and the rope went outward at a fairly great angle. His two friends in the street held it taut though. When at last he reached the ground he signaled for Eryndil to throw him the rope.

Eryndil paused for a moment, looking at the grappling hook fixed to his balcony. He was about to detach it and toss it down when another idea struck him. Drawing his dagger, he cut the rope from the hook, and tossed the free end of rope down to the men in the street.

“Here’s your rope, your Highness,” he said in a suppressed voice. “I will return the hook to you tomorrow… so that you do not try any more climbs this evening. Good night!” and then he drew shut the doors, moving to lock them. He grimaced when he saw there was no lock… what kind of a place had Soromo and Naneth been running here, before he moved in? But then he took the hook and looked it over. In the morning he would see if Harda could make one like it for himself. Meanwhile, he would send Borngol around tomorrow as well, to get a lock on these doors and to check all the other balcony doors around the place.

“Good night Caelen… Hendegil,” he said. “Come on Hendy, let’s go.” He opened the door and there stood his father, his mother, his niece Glambeth and a couple servants. Good thing Hendegil had come in, or the ensuing talk would be all the worse.

“Caelen thought she saw a… spider.” explained Eryndil, significantly tapping the grappling hook into his left hand with his right. He moved on past them all and up the stairs to his own room. With some looks quizzical, and some (notably Rildorien’s) otherwise, the group dispersed – but Caelen spent the night with Hendegil, in HER room.

- - - - - - - -

Just a little later… Third Floor

Eryndil lay in his bed looking at the ceiling, wondering what steps he might take to keep the Prince away from Caelen. At once an idea struck him. He smiled and turned over on his side. Yes – that would make her appreciably safer from him!

He realized then that Caelen lay just now directly below him! Well… almost directly. More like, just over there…

Down below, Hendegil and Caelen heard a sound like a heavy piece of furniture being dragged over a wood floor. “What in Eriador is Eryndil doing up there?” asked Hendegil. But Caelen only shrugged and the two girls lay back down. They had checked – Hendegil’s balcony doors still had their lock, and they had locked the door to the room as well.

Meanwhile, Eryndil lay back, satisfied at last, and after many pleasant thoughts, spent the rest of the night in peaceful sleep.

[Elina]

Lieutenant Hyarion's rooms, King's Arms Inn, Kingdom of Angmar, evening of November 8, 1347

Some time later, Elina awoke to find herself nestled in the arms of the Southron. The lazy lassitude caused by the drugged draught had passed for the time, leaving in its wake a crystal-clear sense of clarity. She ached in places she had never ached before, but the full intensity of the pain was still dulled. Remminiscing upon memories so newly made, she tried to destract herself from the pain of chastity's sudden death with memories of bliss.

Shifting her body so that she lay upon her back - carefully, as not to wake Hyarion - she turned her head and surveyed her new husband in the dim light of the room. His eyes, shaded by thick, dark brows which almost met in the middle, were closed, deep in slumber, and now and then the corners of his lips would twitch into a smile. His long black hair was unkempt, tousled from the rigors of the afternoon and lay softly curling about his neck. The coverlet rested about his waist, and Elina felt at peace as she saw his bare chest rise and fall with his steady breathing. She reached a finger out and furtively touched the dark mat of hair on his broad chest. He stirred in his sleep, and her breath caught in her throat, but he did not wake.

Elina looked to the window, which was partially draped. She judged by the errant light which creeped into the room that it was now evening. They had spent the afternoon lost in heated passion, and this hot-blooded man from the South had taken her soaring to the stars. Though he had been ardent, demanding at times, he had taken care not to bring any pain to her injured wrist.

She was still confused about the manner of her injury. She had a vague recollection... something about a wedding ceremony, and a priest. Apparently, the priest had gone beserk and tried to kill her, but her brave, heroic new husband had saved her from this dire fate. She still did not know why the man had wished her dead, but suddenly plunged into this strange new culture, she was too timid to ask Hyarion why. Perhaps her darling Hyarion would answer all of her questions soon. They just needed a chance to talk, but being so recently wed, her husband was more interested in celebrating their union.

How strange it was for Elina, one of the Lossoth, to find herself in the arms of this man from Harad, a land which she had not even known existed until the day before. From his description of it, it sounded the opposite of Forodwaith - instead of snow, there was sand; instead of tundra there were deserts; the summers were blisteringly hot and the winters were cool and rainy. The buildings were made of mudbrick instead of sod or ice, and people travelled long distances on strange animals with giant humps on their backs.

How strange fate was to thrust her into the arms of this passionate man. Did she truly love him, she wondered, or was she just overwhelmed by the spendor of these new and wonderful experiences? Perhaps after she regained her bearings, understanding would come to her. But in the meantime, she had other worries... Though she could not explain it, she felt that a horrible sickness was coursing through her body, some dread plague which was caused by evil spirits... and this dire malady was somehow connected to the grevious cut on her wrist.

She shivered, for a chill had come over her, creeping up her arm from her wrist like the cold winter wind. She moved closer to Hyarion, pressing her back against his torso, seeking the warmth of his body. Yet it brought her little relief, and her delicate form was soon shivering as though she had fallen through an ice-covered pond into frigid water.

Her trembling awoke Hyarion, and he nuzzled the side of her neck. "Are you cold, my little northern flower?" he murmured as his palm slid its seductive way over the length of her arm. "Perhaps I can warm you up..."

[Daurendil]

(joke post)

Just as Eryndil opened his mouth to speak the words that trembled on his lips; the words that would change his destiny for better or worse; the words that would quench the burning ache he felt in his ... heart - there came a quick knock on the door, and the Prince Daurendil, never one to wait for being announced if it didn't suit him, came striding into the room, whistling a little tune.

"I say, Eryndil - do you have that grappling hook anywhere about?"

Eryndil, struck dumb, nodded his head mutely.

"Would you be a good fellow and just fetch it for me now? I'll keep Caelen entertained while you're gone. There's a good man!" And Daurendil dismissed Eryndil with a little wave of his hand.

A short while later, Eryndil stood up, straightened his clothing and said to the wide-eyed Caelen, "Don't worry, no one will look for him there, and I can easily dispose of the body tonight."

He gave her a reassuring smile, and they walked hand-in-hand back to the house.

[Lord Alassar]

Carn Dum, evening of November 8, 1347

The supper hour had long since passed when Alassar, the King's Steward, made his way from his apartments up the long, winding stairs to the top of a tower which the king had assigned for his use long ago. Arriving at the landing, Galon, his young apprentice, unhooked the latch and opened the door for his master. A sharp, bitter wind struck them in the face, billowing out their cloaks.

A handsome boy, tall and bearing the distinctive look of one of Numenorean ancestry, Galon considered the important work which he would do that night. The boy occupied a coveted place in Carn Dum, and was envied by the other boys of his social class. The son of a prominent lord of Umbar who had come north in the service of the King, the lad had been only eight years old when Lord Alassar had chosen him to be his apprentice. After that, he had dedicated most of his time to his studies and the tasks which Lord Alassar set him. He was determined to learn the secret arts and become an accomplished sorcerer. In the six years that he had been an apprentice, the boy had made impressive progress.

Galon stood back at a respectful distance and held up the lantern. When he was not studying and helping the sorcerer, the boy had another important task - to assist the Master of Ravens in the rookery, which was located in a large building in the main courtyard. Galon took a special pride in this second high position. He was charged with taking the birds from the rookery to the tower when the lord demanded them. The birds had learned to accept him over the years, and sometimes Galon thought he could understand their speech.

Leaning his elbows on the parapet, his long fur-lined sleeves dangling over the sides, Lord Alassar was silent for a long time. Though he concentrated and tried to exercise control over his body, Galon could not help shivering, for nights were cold here in the north. Not so cold as they had been in other years, the boy observed, for the weather in Carn Dum had been surprisingly balmy this winter. Instead of the howling blizzards and raging storms that he had known ever since he had been in the north, snowfall had not been far less than in other years.

The boy looked down over the great fortress which had been cut into the red rocks of the Mountains of Angmar. He had heard that a vast labyrinth lay beneath those mountains, but though he was curious about them, his master had never sent him there. He could only guess what might lie inside those halls and corridors, but when he thought about it, he was not sure if he wanted to find out. There had been stories...

His eyes were drawn to the great, tall tower where glimmered only a few lights. It was said that His Majesty worked his spells of magic there, but this, too, the boy had never seen with his own eyes. His gaze roamed over the great fortress below which was made up a huge complex of auxiliary towers and other pertinent buildings. Then his eyes dropped lower to the village which had grown up below the fortress. The almost full moon striking the snow covering added amazing clarity to everything.

At last Lord Alassar spoke. "Do you see that, boy, off over there beyond the village?" He motioned with his hand to a dark speck in the distance which was approaching ever closer at a rapid pace.

His words took Galon by surprise and the boy jumped. He had been thinking about a girl whom he had met recently down in the village, a comely lass, a little younger than himself. He should not be thinking of her at all, for she was far below his social station, but she was pretty...

"No, my lord, I am sorry," he stammered. "I did not see anything until you pointed it out to me, but, yes, I can see a rider coming at a furious speed. I wonder who it could be?"

"Whoever he is, he won't be getting inside the walls tonight, for the great gate is barred," Alassar commented dryly.

"My lord," the boy added, "he will have a cold night then."

"Galon, whoever he is, the stranger is of no interest to me." He turned back to look at Galon. "Ready the required items."

"Aye, my lord." The boy's hands trembled as he opened the ebony box with arcane symbols inlaid in silver. He carefully lifted out a dagger of curious workmanship which was encased in an ornate jewel-encrusted sheath. "Here, my lord."The boy placed the weapon in Alassar's outstretched hands. Galon heard the swish of metal as Alassar unsheathed the dagger. His hands still trembling, Galon closed his eyes and held his breath. He knew what his master was about to do, and it always frightened him.

The dagger held upon his open palms, Alassar lifted up his arms in the ancient pose of supplication. In a loud voice, he began intoning, "Budg-izg Shakhu-ir gothûrz Bûrzum-ob, Melekô durbûrz shum agh Zigûr brogbuz-Tab, bhûl thrâk-izub agh larg-izish gothûrz!"

Galon's knees shook at the mention of the two great lords, and he bowed his head. There was a long pause as the wizard communed with the powers of darkness before his attention returned to the young man. "Galon, the vessel." Galon held the goblet up and inwardly winced as he watched Alassar slice the dagger across his arm. There was no cry of pain, not so much as a sigh from Alassar as the knife did its work and his red blood dripped into the chalice. Galon wondered if he would ever have the powers of concentration and strength that were required to draw his own blood.

This phase of the ritual now complete, Alassar bound up his wounds and cleaned the ceremonial dagger. With the boy leading the way, the two made their way down the stairs to Alassar's apartments. There Alassar left the boy, took the vessel holding his blood to an antechamber and closed the door behind him.

The wizard had just returned from the chamber when a knock sounded on the door. "Enter!" commanded Alassar as he sat down on a chair and waited for the lad to pour him a goblet of mulled wine.

"My lord Alassar, forgive this disturbance!" exclaimed the red-faced, excited guard who nervously entered the room.

"Approach," came Alassar's disinterested reply. "Approach and state why the tranquility of the night has been disturbed."

The guard walked to the front of his superior's chair and bowed. "There is a strange man outside who claims to be the King's nephew. He was making a great stir at the gatehouse, demanding entry into the city as though he were some sort of royalty. Not knowing what else to do, the guards at the gatehouse arrested him. What would you have us do with him? Throw him in the dungeon or take him to the king?"

"The king is deliberating pressing matters and cannot be disturbed with such nonsense. Clearly the man is mad. Throw him in the dungeon." Alassar waved his hand dismissively. "When morning comes, have him whipped soundly and sent on his way. Flagellation is oft times beneficial in these cases." He hid the smirk on his face as he looked soberly at the guard. He suspected that he knew what "pressing matters" that the king was deliberating. He was probably right now with his current favorite, the lovely Lady Gelireth, or one of his other equally charming companions.

"But, my lord," the guard interjected, "this prisoner does not seem like a common vagrant. His bearing is regal, his speech cultured and dignified... perhaps his claims are true." The guard looked worried.

"Oh, all right," Alassar stifled a yawn, "bring him up and I will talk with him. This might be amusing." He turned to Galon. "My goblet is empty, lad. Refill it."

***
TRANSLATIONS

I call on the powerful lords of darkness, Melkor the very strong and Sauron His favored, accept my gift and make me powerful.
Call-I Lords-on powerful darkness-of, Melkor strong very and Sauron favored-His, accept gift-my and make-me powerful

[Agannalo]

In the guardhouse by the Gate Agannalo waited, outwardly calm, but boiling inside. The wait seemed endless and still no one came to greet him. Agannalo deliberately let some of his power leak out, to keep the guards suitably intimidated and to make his presence more evident to the Captain. Still no one…

Agannalo himself felt the King’s presence strongly – somewhere high in the main tower – and he knew that the Captain’s abilities to feel the presence of beings of his own kind far surpassed his own. “He should know by now that I am here!” thought Agannalo irritably. “What in Ungoliant is he doing at the moment that dulls his senses so much?!”

He remembered that when a couple of decades ago he had visited Gothmog the Third in his solitary fortress in southeastern Harad, the nazgul was the first to meet him beyond the gate. He greeted Agannalo and …misbegotten toad! sent him on his way as speedily as it was socially acceptable. The Sublime Al-Khamul the Blessed, Shakh of Khand, did the same… blast the ruttish doghearted scoundrel... Would the Captain prove as churlish?

Minutes passed, long as hours. Finally the guard sent with the report returned and Agannalo was led towards the main tower. They entered the huge doors, went up a few flights of steps and stopped in front of the double doors richly inlaid with silver arcane symbols. The guard opened the door and let Agannalo through with a bow – which he took as a good sign. However, instead of his Captain, he saw a young richly clad Numenorean, from Umbar by the looks of him, who was sitting at a writing table and was looking bored.

“Now…what do we have here?” asked the man, stifling a yawn. “I am the King’s Steward. State your name and business, stranger.”

“I want to see the King, not his Steward, ” replied Agannalo coldly. “I will be much obliged if you go and warn my uncle. Hurry up, my good fellow, I can’t wait here all night.”

Alassar frowned and narrowed his eyes. Much as the stranger’s attitude infuriated him, he was no fool and noticed several things that the others had missed. The stranger was clearly no “strawhead” as the guards had described him, but a Numenorean, though with unusual coloring. He spoke old-fashioned Westron, close to the ancient Adunaic, much as the King himself did, and had the same distinguished, articulate manner of speaking and the same unusual, chilling accent. Moreover…there was this strange quality in him as well, something that rose goose bumps on Alassar’s flesh and made him shiver as if he were cold…And his eyes… Alassar only looked into their cold blue depths once and had to withdraw his gaze, swallowing hard to hide his fear.

What if this Silmadan was indeed what he claimed to be? The nephew of a heirless King was not someone to be taken lightly. And who knows how high he could rise if the king acknowledged him?

Alassar swallowed again and rose to his feet. “Do you have proof that you are indeed the King’s relative?” he asked at last.

Without a word, Silmadan lifted his right hand …and there on his forefinger was a Ring … a great ring wrought in gold with a clear cold-blue gem. Alassar’s breath caught in his throat. How many times he had admired the King’s Ring, his gaze being drawn to it every time he saw it, his heart pounding like a hammer in his excitement! The stranger’s ring was clearly of the same workmanship. Alassar bowed low to the newcomer.

“My lord”, he stammered, “I am afraid the King is currently occupied with grave matters of State, but certainly tomorrow…”

Alassar felt a slight movement behind and a chill ran down his spine. He sharply turned his head, and there, by the wall, he saw the familiar tall dark figure wrapped in royal mantle. “But how did he get here?” the steward thought in amazement. “Perhaps he has entered by one of the secret passages concealed in the walls, one known only to the Lord of Carn Dum?” Till now, Alassar had no idea that one led to his own rooms.

Agannalo went down on one knee and bowed his head low, in the same fashion as the courtiers in Armenelos had greeted the King of Numenor so very long ago.

“My Lord”, he intoned, “your stray nephew Silmadan is here begging hospitality and shelter”.

[Witch-king of Angmar]

Carn Dum, evening of November 8, 1347
By Gordis and Angmar

Taken by surprise at the king's sudden and unusual appearance, Lord Alassar rose to his feet and bowed low. "Your Majesty, I was not expecting you!" Alassar hoped that the king would not note the look of discomfiture that he was certain must be apparent upon his face. Though he was curious, Alassar thought better than to inquire about the location of the heretofore unknown secret passage. If one were wise, he learned very quickly after coming to the fortress of Carn Dum not to ask too many questions.

"Obviously," the king remarked coolly, a note of amusement in his voice at Alassar's uneasiness. "Ah, I see that my nephew has already introduced himself to you. He often has a way of making himself known when you are not expecting him. It is a habit of his to which every one of his acquaintance must become accustomed. He is also fond of making grand entrances, quite magnificent appearances, actually. People are always impressed by them," he chuckled, a faint twinkling glow in his eyes. Lord Alassar's eyebrows arched questioningly at what he considered criticism by the king of his nephew.

"Your Majesty, the value of grand appearances depends upon the occasion, and I am sure from what you say, your nephew must be the master of it. I will keep that in mind," Lord Alassar chuckled good naturedly, but Agannalo sensed the sarcasm in the man's remark.

Turning to Agannalo, the King surveyed him disinterestedly before speaking. "Rise, nephew. I had been expecting you to arrive for some time, but I note you are late. Perhaps you have had some unfortunate delays on the journey. I trust you came through your adventures well. I am sure you will have much to tell me later."

“Your Majesty," Agannalo replied most humbly (as feigned humility had always been the best course of action, when dealing with the Captain). “Thank you for acknowledging me. My heart is glad to behold you again, dearest Uncle!” Agannalo sniffed and swept away a non-existing tear. The King watched him silently, not impressed.

Having mastered his emotions, Agannalo continued. “It was most difficult to reach Carn Dum and to get to see your Majesty, as your country is guarded well. The Lieutenant of Shedun fortress, this arrogant fool Hyarion, never believed my claims to be your relative. He has treated me in the most outrageous, humiliating fashion, and stole the priceless weapons I carried and the harp, most dear to my heart, a parting present from my late mother…” Agannalo sniffed again, this time more for the Steward’s sake than the King’s. “I beg you to make the thieving knave return my possessions!”

At the mention of “weapons” the King frowned. If Agannalo’s Morgul knife had fallen into mortal hands, it was definitely not good. The King turned to Alassar. “Summon the Lieutenant of Shedun here!” he ordered.

The Steward bowed. “It shall be done right away, your Majesty.”

The King nodded to the Steward. "Lord Alassar, now if you will excuse us, this young rascal and I have many things to discuss and many reminiscences to share."

"Certainly, sire." Lord Alassar moved to open the door for the pair. The thought struck him that perhaps that was not necessary, and the king and his nephew could go back by the way the king made his appearance into the room. Discretion told him otherwise, but he promised himself that when they were gone, he would take soundings of the walls to see where lay the hidden door or doors. This would be purely for his own information. One should know where one might find secret escape routes. In any event, he was sure that the king would never be aware of whatever he discovered.

"Oh, yes, Lord Alassar, see that this young fellow is put up in our best... guest room. See to his comfort. Ah! But I forgot something. The fine young fellow will not have need of company to warm his bed. You see, he is a deeply spiritual man, and he has taken a vow of chastity to... keep his.... soul pure and spotless. He devotes all of his time to purely philosophical and intellectual studies. He is to have free reign of my library, to satiate his deeper needs."

Alassar nodded politely. "Aye, Your Majesty, all will be as you have ordered."

As the King of Angmar strode regally from the room with his nephew following behind, his mind closed like the lid on a steel box. "This young scoundrel will not have access to my women! I will summon a host of the Silent Ones to guard them. Even though he is utterly debauched, he will not dare challenge my special guard! And should he be that foolish, I will handle him myself!"

When the two had arrived at the king's chambers, the King of Angmar rounded on his nephew. "What do you want here?" he demanded, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his eyes glowing threateningly. "State your business, nephew! What is your excuse for coming here? I will not put up with any of your nonsense!"